Yesterday I got an email from the company who hosts my website. It explained that, starting next year, the domain registration won’t be included in the price of the yearly package I have (as it is now), and will cost an additional $26.
I read the email twice. I just stared at it.
I make no money from this website. I never have. I make no money from anything. In fact, I pay to keep ads off this website. I’ve been paying for this site for nearly five years now. Never making a cent, never making a big deal about it, but still, that $26 for the domain in addition to the other fees bothered me.
It’s no secret that I often don’t enjoy writing. One might wonder why I keep doing it (which is fair) and I’m either doing it in spite of myself, or I’m trying to punish myself for something. I write the night before each post (ideally) and, nearly every one of those nights, I realize at some point, OH DARN I HAVE TO WRITE TONIGHT.
I’d say that happens about 80% of the time, and that’s an actual estimate, no hyperbole necessary.
Sometimes I think writing, or, more specifically, my writing, is stupid. The act of it, the example of it, all of it. I feel like I should be better at it by now, I feel like an idiot, I feel like my words are of no interest and I feel like I’m not getting anywhere.
And now, I will have to pay even more to keep doing it.
In reality, $26 is not a big deal. I know that. But that $26 is kicking me in the face when I’m already in the dirt going, YEAH I KNOW. YOU CAN STOP KICKING ME NOW.
That $26 is me moving backwards, paying more money to keep doing what I’m already weary of doing.
That $26 is a big fat middle finger saying HA HA YOU WON’T EVER GET ANYWHERE.
That $26 is a dick.
When I’d had time to think about the email, I wrote to my partner letting him know about the change and that I was already so frustrated with everything, maybe I should just let the site go.
“Obviously, it’s your choice, but $26.00 a year should not be any part of any choice.”
I know he’s right. Of course he’s right. He’s logical and intelligent and, often, his parsing of issues comes out where I’d like to come out without all the other agita I often wade through.
As the night wore on, I thought about the stuuuuuuuuupid $26. It’s a symbol of my moving backwards. That I keep trying, keep writing, and it just gets worse. That $26 is an imaginary voice whispering “give up.”
The evening was difficult. I kept asking if I could allow myself to give up on writing. I don’t believe it’s going anywhere, will go anywhere, but I’ve somehow managed to press on.
Is it worth the time, effort, or cost? Does it benefit anyone?
As I sat there asking myself a lot of questions with negative responses, someone I think incredibly highly of posted the following to my Facebook wall out of the blue:
And her accompanying statement:
“Stick this in your pocket next time you wonder if you will keep writing. Your keyboard is your HMS Beagle.”
Aaand I’m crying again just rereading it.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never known what I’m doing. And I don’t know what will happen.
But I don’t think I have it in me to quit.
The entry fee to my potential continued failure?
I pay it begrudgingly.
But I pay it.